Just happened. I stand at a stop. A lot of people. A man aged 55-60 years. An uncertain walk, shaking, crawling. Not a drunk, but a disabled.

They sit at the stop of the grandmother and one handed out to him: "Wow, morning, and has already eaten, alkas!" Her neighbors are shaking. The man replied that he was not drunk, but a disabled man. The grandmother replied, “Oh, so you are not hungry? It looks like. There are plenty of such people here!“”

I turn to that grandmother and ask, “Are you stupid?” The expected response. How you laugh! by Ham! I replied, “Oh, so you’re not stupid? and seem. Do you know how many idiots? “”

How would you capture the world if you find yourself in 1990 with all the current memories, but in the body of the child that you once were?



— — —



I have four.



I just lost my wife and children, and now I am the most depressed and smart kindergarten in the world. My parents don’t understand what’s going on, and I don’t tell them anything because it’s crazy. I am not taken to a psychiatrist: there is no psychiatrist in parental insurance, we can not pay a doctor from our own pocket either.



I have behavioral problems at school. My extraordinary intelligence is obvious to anyone, but I am so bored to do homework that instead I come up with algebraic problems and solve them myself. I write code in programming languages that don’t exist yet. I don't have access to the computer, although I constantly swear it.



The ratings are getting worse and worse, and I am often called to the director for how I behave in class. But it’s America, so every year I’m transferred to the next class.



In the fourth grade, the teacher, noticing how much I know, begins to give me high school books. A good year.



Next year, everything returns to normal, and I am crushed.



When I was in eighth grade, a psychiatrist finally appeared in my mom’s insurance. I come to him for the first time. I have been in the opposite direction for ten years. Now I don’t feel the bitterness of loss, but the boredom of an adult living in a child’s body is just as deadly.



You promise not to tell my parents, teachers or the police.



He agrees.



I’m telling him that my consciousness has shifted from 2018, that now I should be 41, that I’ve had a wife and children, and that I’ve been somehow trying to cope with all this since I hit four. He does not believe me. I show him the program code written in languages that are not yet available. I solve algebraic problems and equations in polar coordinates—nothing of this I need to understand by age.



He thinks I’m a wanderkind. And that I am crazy.



I say that George Bush Jr. will win the presidential election. He thinks I’m just ticking my finger into the sky. I am a gun. There is only one year until 9/11.



Now he thinks I’m dangerous. I plan for 9/11.



I’m trying to surrender back and say it’s all al Qaeda. He asks if al-Qaeda is talking to me.



Talking to him is meaningless.



I was transferred to neuroleptics. I feel nothing, I think badly, I don’t want anything. But I’m no longer in “depression,” so the therapy is recognized as successful. My psychiatrist checked me regularly.



9 of 11. I and my parents are being dragged to meet with a psychiatrist, a police officer and two men in costumes. Parents do not understand what is happening. They try to talk to me, but I refuse. They have all of my internet traffic – some places inappropriate, but nothing incriminating. I demand that they stop eating my pills, they agree.



I am under house arrest with a bracelet on my feet. In school and home. I do not care. I have no friends, even my friends from my previous lives are just children.



Another meeting in a month. How did I know about 9/11? I demand a lawyer. They don’t give me it. I shake my shoulders and keep silent.



There will be a lawyer.



I tell the lawyer everything, he doesn’t believe me, I demand another.



I tell the new lawyer everything, he doesn’t believe me. I demand another.



I tell the new lawyer everything, she doesn’t believe me. But she will protect me on the basis that I have told the truth. I agree.



We tell them nothing. Home arrest is a violation of my rights, and the Patriot Act, which allows them to keep me locked on the slightest suspicion, is still, in essence, not adopted. The lawyer threatens to go to journalists.



They are falling.



In the first year of high school, my scores are terrible. I understand that they need to be pulled up if I want to get to the same college where I find my wife, so I start doing twice as hard. I am going from double to excellent. The teachers were confused, but a stone fell from their hearts.



The last year. I only submit papers to one college. My parents thought I was flying out of the coil. But the plan is this: I am going to the Honors Program, to the same Honors Program, where I met my wife almost thirty years ago (in my personal chronology), I live in the same communion as she, I am working in the same engineering team as she was when we started dating.



Only I do not do. My scores are too low because I failed my first year in high school. The college is the same, but I cannot reproduce the circumstances of our meeting.



But there is hope, even if it is small. I will go to college. I know in which clubs she goes, with whom she’s friends. I will be where she is.



I’ve been around with her for months, working on inviting her to a date. How can you call on a date someone you lived with for 12 years and who you lost 14 years ago and who doesn’t remember you at all? How do you approach her with all that baggage that she has no idea about?



But finally I do it. I call her on a date.



She says “No.”



But how, how. The world around me is collapsing. Is she my wife, does she not understand? I crash, it scares her, and she runs away. I run after her, but she has time to press the alarm button on campus.



Of course, my story of “madness” immediately binds me. Next month I will be in psychiatry.



One day, two men in costumes visit me again. They say they can pull me out. But I have to tell them about 9/11. These are the same FBR sheep I saw a hundred years ago. And I surrender. I tell them everything.



They pull me out of the psychic. Now I have a good home in some ass of the world, a good computer, a great internet. And I have to keep telling them about the future.



In my free time I work as a consultant. FBR pays all my expenses, so such earnings are my pocket money. On January 2, 2009, I set up a computer with a powerful GPU, and the next day I start mining bitcoins.



I fucking much. Much more than anyone could expect from mining in the early days of Bitcoin. As a result, Bitcoin doesn’t take off because everyone else with their ordinary computers has no point in fighting with me. The cryptocurrency collapses, and has not reached the first peak.



After two years, the FBR comes back to me again, they need information about the future again. But I had nothing left, I already told them everything I remembered.



I am being thrown out of the house, all the computers they bought me are being taken away. All the computers I’ve assembled myself are picking up too—these are, you see, substantive evidence.



I have nothing more. I am wandering. From one small town to another, I move on fast trails.



One day I fall asleep on a shop in the park.



Not to wake up the next morning.

Men in note.

Before making a conclusion, you must first make an introduction.

“Sasha Lucky... or Repair in English”

I have a companion under the underground name “Sasha Lucky.” He is also famous for loving sharp sensations and all kinds of extremes. But not immediately new people understand why it is so called, because most often it can be seen either in a plaster, or transplanted as a mummy of Ramses II on the way from the clinic to his native yacht club. Personally, I have never seen him without any traces of recent medical intervention.

And the main thing is engaged in mountain climbing and climbing the rocks, like a monkey for bananas and at work, the slasher has kept all the fingers, and here - then when the shuttle between the yacht and the sailboat will fall, then in the unclosed lounge on the boat will fail, and even from a hit by a gick on the dome will fall out of board. And after all, a person does not drink, and in sailing sports since childhood.

And he got his nickname because he ends every story with the phrase: "It's lucky to be alive!" In short, everyone is accustomed to this and if someone starts the conversation with the words: "Have you heard what happened yesterday in the yacht club?" everyone immediately loses interest and only tiredly asks: "Again Sasha is lucky?".

But this story probably surprised everyone.
The first part.

(The yacht and crew, which does not include and has never included Sasha.)

So is the regatta. The sporting spirit is even at an anemometer. A turning boat is approaching and all yachts are bored on one fifth - everyone wants to be the first to bypass this boat, to put a spinacher (a large light sailing, but it is not important here) and immediately get rid of the competitors on the wind.

Work on board is boiling, distracting no time: the backs load the spinacks, the scooters grind and pick up the scooters, the steering wheels, turning out their eyes, watch the sails and how not to fly into the boats that go "board-on-board". Every second, every meter is important.

And here... from somewhere above from the sub-ventilated side there is a growing shout: “eeeeeeeee-baaaaaaa...”. Everyone in the crew dies and looks up, hoping to locate the source of this apocalyptic sound.

In the same moment, together with a scream, because of the sailing, "Sasha-Fortunato" flies out, as if it had fallen from a flying bomber, passes in front of the yacht and does not fly a couple of meters to the next, fairy, with a plush and a fountain, the sprinkle is melting its whistle in the swamp...

There is no pause. The warming eyes of others, the nervous hiccups and the question hanging in the air: "That's what, b., at all, this was and where did it come from?" Everyone is looking up again, looking for the bomber. The curtain...

The second part.

A few minutes before that. On the yacht “Sashi Lucky”

The boat is approaching, the yacht is flying in the same mass. Sasha, as the most agile and sporty, charges the spinacher on the tank. Work is like everything else...

But then it turns out that there was a phal in the block on the top (on the top) of the macht. What to do? If you want to win the race, go to the match. No time at all. As long as you find or build a "Botsman chair" (a bandage for raising a man on a matcha), as long as you pull the sailors to the top - a lot of time will take.

And then a victorious idea comes to Sane’s mind: “Capp, listen, I’ve seen here on YouTube, how the English boat is encircled under the wind so that they sail to the top.”

“Hey, you fucking invented it!” replied the captain.

“Let’s talk, but here’s the thing: lie down in the “half wind”, (the course of the wind – when the wind blows the yacht right in the side), out of the wind as much as to hold! Let us try!”

Cap thinks a few seconds and the spirit of competition still takes up over reason and common sense.

“Aaaah!” Okay, we went – choose the Scots! Half the wind! Sania with insurance. “Hey, you’re lucky,” commanded the captain.

The yacht lies "half wind", gets a crane and almost touches the sailing water.

Whether Sasha did not hear the last words of the captain, whether he pretended, or whether they were not said at all - history silences it. The fact is that Sanya used (or almost went) sailing without insurance. And he “run” by sailing, to be known, very sharply and cleverly, if he managed to run further than to the middle (the total height of that macht from the waterline is 17m.) Until the boat broke...

Immediately all the pressure of the wind, which created the necessary crane disappeared, the yacht was lightningly aligned and the macht catapulted Sasha-Pozzelo with a scream: "yeeeeeeeeeee-baaaaaaa...!!Ballistic trajectory towards competitors.

During the rescue operation, not only all the participants, but also the victim himself fought in hysteria, which significantly complicated the work.)

P.S “The four ribs were broken, the arm, the shoulder, the hematoma on the body floor, but... It was fortunate that he was alive!”

When I was a kid, I thought about why adults’t be able to put order in the economy and reconcile with neighboring countries.
When I grew up, I realized that there were no adults.